


Dungeon Witch: The Minotaur Incident

by Pastel Comma (Regina_Hark)



Series: Dungeon Witch Griselda and Other Tall Tales [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Belly Expansion, Breast Expansion, Breast Fucking, Consensual Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Character of Color, Height Differences, Interspecies Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Milking, Misunderstandings, Monster sex, Monsters- Minotaurs, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Pheromones, Power Dynamics, Scenting, Size Difference, Witch Culture, Witches, excessive cum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regina_Hark/pseuds/Pastel%20Comma
Summary: Nettle is your average wichelen so of course, she couldn't put up a fight when a beast, a MINOTAUR, busted into the enclave and ran off with her into the night. She knows how this story goes. Minotaur catch witch. Minotaur eat witch. But this burly titan isn't following the script and left the pen, and her pleasure, in her own hands.





	1. Catchin' It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden between her brown arms, Nettle felt the minotaur’s burning eyes rake over her prone form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World-building this chapter.  
> Heavy world-building at start of second chapter before easing into sex. 
> 
> *Technically speaking, I'm writing this series in reverse. The Minotaur Incident is suppose to happen after Glory's Favorite Hole which happens after Those Nettle Girls... And holy fuck, I did not mean to start an actual, actual series again. With witches. 
> 
> The writing life everybody!

“Minotaur!” Nettle shouted, a scream ready to signal an alarm before a huge hand, meaty and smelling of salt, clamped around her shoulder. The sheer size of it. This mockery of a human hand, fur-lined and thick, near enveloped her entire face as it reached up to silence her. Fingers longer than a ruler. Flesh fatter than a pouch full of coal. And surely enough, it felt the same. Taut and unyielding as the tensing muscles of the monstrous palm held firm against her shrieking lips.

“Min-!” she tried again. “-elp me!” Her lungs on the verge of popping.

It was in the first few seconds of contact, Nettle remembering she had legs to kick and hands to claw, that this was a one-sided struggle. And not one in her favor. She threw back her elbow and met pain born from a strength of an iron-like torso. Nettle kicked backwards. Hoping to hit something soft and exploitable and got a fleshy sounding _thwap_ for her trouble. The beast chortling at her.

Little did the minotaur know that this was standard protocol.

The wichelen on shift for the hub burrow, pardons, the First Rim, were trained for this very instance.

Tactics such as screaming, crying, shouting and using threats to earn time for the gemstones built along the walls to act. Precious semi-stones recording and classifying the beast’s race, range and weakness for a swift retribution.

And now to use the greatest stalling method of all.

Nettle licked her teeth, coaxing out the remitto poison etched behind her molars, and bit into its palm. Hopefully riling the minotaur up before it killed her and threw her aside. As her teeth sunk in, Nettle took a moment to reflect on her life as a wichelen. Worthless. Then of what was happening now. Her throwing her life away for her fellow witches-in-training and the fact she’d be counted in the death toll of today. Number thirty-six. Pitiful, really. She’d liked to have been an odd number. Thirty-seven, please.

It all went by rather fast.

The fleeing of the others. The beast stomping around and fending of the magic blasts of the gemstones. A noisy madness delving deep into Nettle’s pounding ears until it, all at once, stopped. The other wichelen gone. The gemstones pulverized by the beast. And the fact, that, yes, that her lungs kept on pumping air, her body moved on its own and Nettle was able to formulate thoughts meant she was alive still.

Her teeth hardly nicked the beast or if it did, the minotaur was immune.

Drops of metallic-tasting blood entered her mouth but she wasn’t rewarded by the minotaur toppling over or at least, slowing its relentless speed. It let her go for some strange reason. Her small frame tumbling to the floor as a pile of shivering, frantic limbs. Nettle threw up her arms, expecting to be smashed the same as the gems. It had to have smelled her. Wichelen not witch.

And the beast stared at her, startled. Reacting to her show of fear. Why? Why would it ever care?

Her purple eyes darted along the basin-shaped hall.

There had to be a hole or nook she could tuck herself in and wait the end out.

Hidden between her brown arms, Nettle felt the minotaur’s burning eyes rake over her prone form. Her threadbare skirts hoisted over her rump. Thighs and hips on display as her full backside sat perched in the air. Her body as skittish as a newborn fawn. Endless shivers making her body jiggle and sway with nervous, frantic energy.

“Milk Mouth.” the beast grunted, words an enigma. “Dainty witch mare. Stay. Stay put.”

The ground rumbled under her. Good. That meant that help was on its way. Nettle wasted a glance.

Running blindly wouldn’t help. The beast was still here, now engaged with combat with stone gargoyles responding to the damage to the gemstones. Curse that speed! The minotaur spun and crushed, grabbing and squeezing off their clay heads. Their spears hardly drawn before the beast reached them. Smashing their bodies into the tunnel’s walls and stomping the light out their skulls.

Shards of rock and metal rained down, stabbing the floor she’d just swept clean fifteen minutes ago.

Nettle huddled on the floor, hands thrown over her tangerine hair. Growing gray under the storm of dust and pebbly parts. Orange curls, puffy and in tight sprawling screws, bounced along with her. Half of her chaotic hair was pinned, eight rations, that’s sixteen morsels mind you, went to the butterfly clip that held one side back. Nettle was still saving for a second one. Yet if she had any useful magical talent, she’d be able to conjure one then there. Or curse a fellow wichelen into giving her one of theirs.

All’s fair with magic and might.

The other half of her hair, still that bright tangerine shade, hung across her shoulder. It drew eyes to her dark skin, a perfect limonite-brown. Small gray stars, tattoo-like, looped lazily around the flesh of her wrists and neck. More witchness that made it obvious she wasn’t human despite her shape. There! There was her moment. Nettle got up and ran, her cloth-sown flats skidding across the polished ground as she made for the end of the hub burrow.

This should have never happened.

An intruder. An intruder that was a _minotaur_.

The First Rim was built entirely out of stone and roots. Brown lines now faded chalky veins. No trace of soil that could be dug through. No shortage of powerful barrier runes to prevent any and all intruders from the outside. A fact that her enclave boasted to all the others. Not a single invasion for a decade!

And now, it was certainly not the case.

Nettle pushed herself faster, mixing in with the second wave of stone gargoyles pushing through.

She didn’t dare look behind her. The noise was rising again. Crush. Crush. Crush. Gargoyles being thrown left and right. Nettle forced herself to think of anything else. She was as good as gold now. The minotaur would be overran or slain and she’d be one of the first to say she survived the-

A gargoyle head flew over Nettle and made a crater in front of her path. As if… on purpose!

The wichelen zigzagged left, her loose black skirts flying up in her haste. Gargoyle heads came one after the other. Nettle went right, then left. Desperately trying to get further before the chaos behind reached up. What was this? Why couldn’t it make itself busy with the enclave’s reinforcements. Did the beast decide it needed to take at least one life before it was slain?

Nettle finally saw the Rim Gate, her fellow wichelen on the other side rushing to seal it.

“Wait. Wait!” Nettle yelled. “Let me in! Don’t you dare leave me to feed it. I won’t be thirty-six, damn it-”

Their eyes widened. The wichelen pointing and gesturing. The beast! Spite, Nettle was so close.

Inches before the door, the minotaur somehow appeared. The gale buried in his speed whipped out and knocked everyone away. Oh spite! Oh spite sworn in the neither world, let her hate remain! On her back, Nettle threw out a hand. Weakly trying to use a spell. Her magic was downright useless. She floundered in the three great Witch Arts: Cursing, Casting and Conjuring.

The beast swept Nettle up regardless of her will.


	2. Hoofin' It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showing her exactly what he meant with his body. Pressing hard. Pressing with promise.
> 
> “Smelled this.”
> 
> He kissed Nettle’s breast with azurite-blue lips.
> 
> “See this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So again, world-building at the start, eases into sex. 
> 
> Next chapter will have aftercare, more belly expansion, cock milking, size kink and deepthroating.  
> Last chapter will have light bondage, milking (of the boob kind), tail sex and transformation kink.

Despite her flailing, given that she was as good as dead, Nettle’s mind went bright with humor.

Because this was funny. Because this was absolutely, positively hilarious. And if only she could share this with anyone who’d like a good dark joke. Not that anyone who’d lived outside the enclave would get it. Nettle a wichelen. Nettle a most hated creature by just about anything that walked on two legs, i.e. humans, the ones who think only of themselves at the phrase, and then some.

After all, this wasn’t her first time coming in contact with minotaurs and their cousins.

Nettle met them daily upstairs. Again wichelen talk. She and her fellow horrors lived in tunnels within the hills, so downstairs was actually upstairs- Okay, getting to the point. She’d met minotaurs aplenty. Dead-eyed. Well preserved. Already sliced into manageable pieces for easy tanning and stretching to make those very same pouches she’d described.

Monster remains to be worked over before being sent to the Great Eastern Arcane Market.

Come think of it, there were probably wichelen at it now. Assembled in the tanning hall, young witches handling back and forth product to be spelled and charmed for sell. Custom orders made directly by matron witches who barked orders and demanded things be faster, faster, faster.

So excuse her if this whole situation lit a cackling fire to warm her stone heart.

With no concern to who or whom Nettle was making into a bag. And thus the same fate came onto her. This stupid, stupid minotaur stealing her away from the hub burrow and back the way it came. If the beast came for revenge, it’s at the wrong end of the supply line. This was a witch enclave. A miserable pit that bought raw material from dungeons and sold their goods to those of a wicked inclination. It should have been obvious to the beast. Not a monster at the door nor any like it in the halls beyond.

Spite only knows how the minotaur managed to get through the runes at all.

Nettle's cleaning supplies fell out of her apron pocket, clattering away on the limestone floor. Shoes soon to follow, aided by her desperate heels. She had no idea where they were going. Nettle being dragged backwards and two fingers attempting to blind her view. She could have tried her teeth again. Thought of it. Fantasied of it. Biting the bastard into submission. But the idea of those same fingers reaching around her neck and giving it certain and permanent _snap_ kept her jaw quite obedient and tame.

The minotaur used his free hand to dig something out.

The motion shook through her whole body thanks to his great size.

Whatever it was, it burst into heat and sparks.

And that light he carried.

What was it? It carried a scent of burning. How strange.

Orange and bright and flickering on the end of a handmade torch. Flame? _Real_ flame? Did he not know that such light was forbidden underground. Eating up the air and leaving it with poison that quickly filled their clustered rooms.

The more practical torches she’d been raised around reacted to the death-bringing light’s presence.

Their glowing light, speckled with purple and green fumes channeled through the enclave’s pipe system, flicked. Friendly false light going out one after the other. Shrouding them in absolute darkness as the walls on both sides trembled and began to move. Starting from the Rim Gate, the walls whooshed and met, demolishing whom ever remained there.

A signal that the minotaur ought to get moving.

Nettle willed her legs to keep moving or rather, they willed her not to faint.

Thin traces of moonlight came through the cracked stone panels up ahead, fist-sized whalomps left a story of how the minotaur apparently punched its way in. But worse than that was the grand doors. Ornamental things carved into deep-set bedrock. A passage that shouldn’t even be possible to open without a matron witch on the other side. But spite, dear spite, they were.

Dragged still, the balls of Nettle’s feet made contact with the dead soil that lined this end of the First Rim. Lifeless powder placed to drain the energy of any creature thinking of going in, or, in most situations, thinking of getting out. Wichelen included. The sapping of her energy came without warning. Lethargy crawling quick to make her eyelids slump and breath grow slow.

Nettle slumped, limbs drained of their fight. Her heart, rigid and cold, actually began to beat. Bizarre.

“No!” she spat, squirming to claw and scratch at the limb hauling her into the hollow of outside. “Please-”

Ah, outside.

How long has it been?

Possibly as long as it been since she was human. An ordinary human child. Mess-maker. Maggot-pot.

How long ago was that?

Eighteen years. Nineteen years. Somewhere between that number. Nettle’s nameday was still two months off. And honestly, thinking of outside and humans and her impending death was such a damper on her humor. Facts did that. And the facts did not lie.

She was going to die as a human. The minotaur goring her with its horns.

Or else it could prove its stupidity even further by eating her as a witch. Carving out her heart and eating it for power. A mistake being that Nettle wasn’t a witch. She was a wichelen and-

Fuck, there was nothing she could do to stop it from ripping out her heart in the first place.

The fresh snow of the hillside crunched under her feet as the minotaur took her from the serene shadows of the enclave’s desolate front. Old stone fashioned to resemble a destroyed cottage. Stone walls and doors all circular like a coin. Sleepy vines brown with winter growing all around.

The sort of spectacle necessary to deter humans from planting their villages around here. Something to do with respect and memory and other human nonsense.

The minotaur pulled her even further than that.

Onto snow-covered grass and sloping hills, looping lands around the unsteady earth that was the topside of her enclave home. Moonlight and starlight shined down, making sure no nocturnal native could miss what would be next. Nature in motion. A witch slaughtered by a thing on two legs. And though this minotaur wasn’t human, it was a good substitute.

They went even beyond that, which is an odd thing to note, but, Nettle, enclave witch-in-training, had never been further. And what remained of her human memory, distorted by the torture that was being human, couldn’t conjure an image to ease what she saw.

From grim hillside, they entered a whistling forest still wearing a cloak of leafy green upon its branches. Gnarled oak and pine wrestled with red and green yearlings that clambered the aged bark, looking to steal at the trees’ stores. Through holes made by critters and birds, the wind rushed through them and the forest seemed to sing a lulling tune.

This place made her sick to her stomach. Looking so lovely.

And it was here, not in the enclave, not in the First Rim lonely tunnel, or in the outskirts of the enclave’s disguise, that the minotaur decided to stop. Presumably to kill her. Ah, to be gored to death by a bovine beast. Wouldn’t Witch Horehound be proud. A dishonorable death worthy of being spoke of for ages.

Nettle fixed her skirts and apron, flattening down their wrinkles and half-mended patches.

She’d be damned if the witches who found her corpse saw a rip she’d had yet to mend.

Shame the minotaur had to ruin that by speaking sensible.

“I am not here to hurt you.” It, _he_ , grounded out. The common tongue of the western hills almost impossible to decipher. “Gracious, you are a mare hard to find.” he said, before his words became much harder to understand. “Much smaller. Mouth of yours. Deceptive. Dainty too. Witch mare. Should have expected, yes? Trouble. Much trouble. But milk, Milk Mouth. Had to find.”

His voice far softer than it should have been.

Tender like lamb fresh out of a simmering pot. All sweetness and smell compared to the dismembered limbs that went in. His voice, deep and plying like obsidian ink poured into a necklace mold, popped her saintly acceptance of the situation. She was terribly, terribly calm all considered. Intruded on. Attacked by friend and foe. Left to die. Capture. No wichelen could claim to be calmer.

But this went a step too far.

Wichelen died by the dozens. That was their life. To live by the tolerance and profit of their matron witches. Accidents. Murders. Invasions. Catastrophes. Sieges by other enclaves. All that was normal in Nettle’s eyes. Wichelen, however, did not chat with enclave-invading monsters. Monsters who did not raise their tone. Monsters who took her away from her hole and into this forest of life and mid-winter wonder.

And lucky for the minotaur, his hand still over her mouth, he couldn’t hear her utter, “What the fuck.”

Nettle’s tears spilled down and wetted his fur. She didn’t know why she was crying. He wasn’t going to kill her apparently. But she didn’t know why she wouldn’t be crying. The witches hadn’t told her what to expect after this point. After capture by a monster. Her body needed something to do. So she cried.

There was no easy way to describe how he eclipsed her. Not only in height but in sheer width. She only reached the middle of his bulky chest, rows of deep-set muscle and abs sculpted onto his beast-like body. Shoulders bigger than her head. Hands dwarfing her face. Cinder-gray horns, long and curved around his skull to point forward, sat on both sides of his head. Cords of magic flickering up and around the base of each root.

The witches had explained all the ways a monster could kill a witch.

A minotaur’s preferred method was always their horns. Two piercing points that could even shatter a witch’s protective barrier and cleanly cut free her heart. Seeing them so close, primed and ready. Nettle hiccuped, meaningless whines escaping her throat. Would it hurt? Would it end quick?

Those same horns thrusting into her flesh and ending her life...

The minotaur swiped with a large thumb, wiping away the liquid freezing in the cold. There it was again. That gentleness that simply didn’t belong. “Not here to hurt. Please know I won’t. Swear.”

Nettle tried to blink back the water but she couldn’t, wouldn’t.

He picked her up, sweeping her off her shivering feet and began to walk again. Making her press up against his steely body, her skirts and apron feeling like wet parchment compared to the meaty ridges of such girth and gall. And spite, he was warm. Hot to the touch. Fur far softer than it looked. Or at least around his belly, thick coarse curls making a v-line to south. Smelling like tree sap, lamp oil and musky sweat with a foreign undertone that had her dry-swallowing to wash it away from her tongue.

Her eyes despite knowing better, despite fearing better, fluttered closed. Body caught in taking it in.

That familiar filthy musk.

They went off into the night’s brilliant light. The forest thickening all around them. Trunks of black cursed bark growing rise far and above the ceilings of the highest tunnels. Branches filled with wreathe leaf and white snowy dust swaying in the dark.

“Who-” she sobbed, coughing. “Who do you really want? I know what I am now. A hostage.” she accused. “They’ll never pay for me. Never! Is this some trick to lure a witch out?” Nettle rubbed at her eyes. “It is, isn’t it? You’ve chosen the wrong wichelen. I’m a Nettle. No one important. Might as well turn back around.”

“Eaten share of witches. Good amount.” the minotaur said. His voice vibrating through his hulking frame, the sensation maddening to feel. She flinched. He did say ‘eaten’, right? “That make afraid?” he nodded to himself. “Not here for that. Came to sniff. For fun, told self. Fun. But wanted to see. Needed to see.” he lifted a hand, threatening in its size, and booped her on her nose. “Seen.”

His smell, pungent and persistent, seemed to invade her nostrils. Still so, so familiar that she’d-

“Seen?”

“Yes.” the minotaur chortled, the earthquake shaking her precarious position. “Know how witches work. Dungeon Witches, yes. Fast run, I. Minotaur storm through. We do. We at birth. Smart minotaur. But different, I.”

He pounded his chest, big fist thumping a little too close for comfort.

“Sped through, I. Smarter minotaur. Got you fast. Got out fast. Smart bull, yes?”

Nettle sat up. “But that was an enclave, not a dungeon. None of us are Dungeon Witches.”

The minotaur snorted. “Thought you were a weak witch. Worried. Worried more. No monsters. No monsters protect you.” he exhaled, voice growing darker. “Saw no monsters. Saw danger. Get you out. Get out. Smartest minotaur.”

That made some sense.

The minotaur thought he was doing her a favor. Saving her from an impending attack... that he made.

Well, being stationed at the first tunnel of the enclave was called the chore of fools for that reason. If there was an attack at the grand doors, rare as they be, the wichelen stationed there would be assumed to be the witch of that hole and be captured or killed.

It’s by that method witches are free to move with a little insurance to prevent their deaths.

So wichelen learn how to court favor to not wind up on that roster. And to think, Nettle took that job as part of on-going bribe deal. Thinking as the weakest of the Nettles, there would be no monster hungry enough to aim for her. Spite, rain down and wash this humble heart into pride.

Wait, that minotaur implied he was smart.

Could he know about their roster? Could he have been stealing wichelen for weeks?

This being his long term plan to have a steady supply of hearts?

“I’m- I’m just a Nettle!” she babbled. “A weakling. My heart is stone! Not even limestone like a Yarrow or a Clover. If you let me go, I’ll become more delicious. Sweeter. Crystal. Better to eat. I’d find you someone better to eat.” Nettle lied. “Just turn around and let me go back in. I’ll find a group of wichelen for you to fill your belly.”

He sighed, his breath coming out a stream of curling steam.

“Not listening. Not listening. Afraid, yes?” he followed her eyes. “Muzzle? Snout? Bothering, yes? Scary. Grrgh.” She stared at him, hands still attempting to dig her way free. Neat sharp nails unable to pierce such a strong hide. “Horns?” Nettle flinched. “The one, hmmm. Can’t vanish, haven’t spell yet, but could-” His horns glinted, magic and mana warping around them.

They shrank a size or so. Smaller but no less deadly.

“Better for you, Milk Mouth? Help?”

Was he insane? Nettle nodded, numb and complying.

“Good.”

Like the rest of him, the minotaur was covered in a thin layer of bristle-like fur. That cobalt-blue shade somewhat brighter in the dizzying moonlit stride of his. And frankly, he didn’t at all match what a minotaur corpse looked like.

Crude to say, but yes, that was her point of reference.

Besides the meat and muscle that lined his burly frame, he wore clothing. Actual clothing. Thick leathery black slacks held together by buckles and belts. So many varieties and designs that they had to have taken a while to collect.

Colors rich and distracting. Different from the pale and dusty things Nettle handled every day.

On his torso, he wore a white stretched halter close to ripping at the seams and a black vest. The shirt lewdly sat on his belly, hitching up and showing a large belly button and hard muscles ridged deep into his chest. Bluish hairs made a naughty salt-smelling trail leading straight to his groin.

No boots.

But what need would he have of them with those dark hooves serving as feet.

He stared at her, baleful brown eyes pleading. Hypnotizing. She couldn’t look away.

“Can you-” she swallowed, throat as dry as straw. “explain it to me again. I can’t understand.”

His bovine ears twitched, big and floppy. Five golden rings in both ear. Ranking for minotaurs? “From lands east here. Across the sea. Know this, yes. Minotaur aren’t here. Too dry. Too cold. Too dusty. Tongue raw from this land. No good. Witch mare. You. You tricky. Long time. Months now. Wanted to sniff. Witch mare? Unbelievable! But was witch, had to sniff. Only sniff. Then see. Seen.”

Nettle blinked.

“That last part, can you say it _different_ or-”

The minotaur shook his head.

“Show? _Show_. Body better than words.”

He leaned down, letting her get free from his huge arms and boulder-thick biceps. Her feet met snow and Nettle quickly made for one of his large hoof-prints to avoid sinking further. The beast skewed her perspective of just how much snow there was. White and everywhere, there was little tell as to what was actual earth and what was a sneaky snow mound looking to make a wichelen grave.

Nettle put her palms together and pooled on her magic.

Drawing on mana to make the weather less potent to her unfortunate choice in garb. Living in the warm and damp earth led to more of a lax uniform for wichelen out and about. Black tattered cloth for skirts. Gray straw for smocks. Dark colors to hide stains. Lighter colors to warn of contamination and spills.

Despite her layers, three skirts and an apron, Nettle might as well as been wearing paper.

She wore no top aside from modesty wrappings that swept around her breasts and front. And these wrappings, smoke-white, were only for function of keeping delicate parts from getting scalded by steam or brew. And yet, she’d never felt so aware of her body as of now.

Nettle wished she tied the modesty wrappings tighter. Flatten her front some more.

Her breasts seemed to jut out. Brown mounds bundled in bleached white. Ribbons looping around the underside of her firm flesh.

On the top of her bust, the ribbons unraveled from her ride on the minotaur.

Nettle snorted. That sounded inappropriate.

Ahem, the ribbons unfurled from her _capture_ by the minotaur. It almost looked like a proper top. Skimpy. But a top all the same. The wrappings to cover the curving line between her two dangling tits peeled away to hang on the sides. Streamer-like as they hung around each mound. The under-wrapping unraveled as well. Two or three ribbons kept loyal as the rest sprung free to hang loose.

And she hadn’t at all gotten to her nipples.

Roused by the weather, they pushed through the overlap of the ribbons. Dark buds, berry-fat, huddled up the fabric. Making dark and warm holes which her nipples cheerfully took advantage of. Nettle awkwardly held herself, tucking her breasts into the crooks of her arms. Breasts and wrappings escaping from one angle to the next. Embarrassing.

The easiest way to fix her modesty wrappings would be to take them all off and re-apply them. But that would mean bearing her breasts, which held her heart, to a monster who ate hearts.

As they say, “Do not show the hero where to stab.”

The loss of mana dug deeper than the chill itself. Her stone heart desperately trying to harden once more. Weak from the dead soil and her own tiny mana reserve. And just what was the minotaur doing?

He got on all fours. A charming sight. Sloping angular shoulders tightening, a map of muscle and might flexed on such a wide and strong back. Thick arms to thicker forearms. Great fists not sinking in the snow but flattening it into steaming puddles. Nettle’s mouth fell open as the beast arched.

His lower half getting a turn in confusing her insides.

The minotaur’s tail, darker than the rest of him, an inky blue, and ending in a brush-like tip of soft hairs, swung. The long limb tensing and twitching like a snake readying to strike.

Eyes captured, she followed down to his canyon-carved ass. Nettle made a squeak of alarm. His chiseled rear could hardly be contained in those hip-clinging slacks. Outlining every nook and notch that made up the rest of his hard thighs and bovine legs well-covered in heavy fur.

And that enormous bulge that was hung between such divine thighs.

“What the fuck.” Nettle breathed, directing it to herself. “Of all the things to want to ride-”

He broadened his stance, left hoof kicking up soil and mud. Nettle stupidly, horny and hot in the neither regions, brought a pair of fingers to crawl into the little overlap of wrapping and breast. Squeezing her brown nipple to ease that unnecessary heat growing below.

The minotaur took off, now a blip of blue and night.

All around her, the snow kicked up with seemingly no source to pin it too. Grunts loud and echoing. Strands of mana, magic appeared in the air. Various cords of many colors thread-thin as the minotaur summoned them into existence.

The slushing snow honed in on Nettle’s position. A lavender cord leading straight to her.

The minotaur slammed into Nettle, knocking her right over. She fell back, full breasts clapping back and modesty wrappings curling up as his muzzle, hot, smooshed against them. Vibrations of his large chest causing her tits to quake with his every inhale. “Understand?” the minotaur said, nostrils breathing deep. His exhales causing her chest to break out in sheets of dew-like sweat.

Goosebumps rising to decorate her titties pillowing his heavy and grand front. Oh spite...

The softness of his snout tickled.

Nettle grabbed the back of his head, fingers brushing over tufts of hair snipped to hang over one side.

“Pa-Pause. Stop. Halt. Freeze.” she stuttered. “This doesn’t count, okay. I just wanna know how that nice snout feels on my… You get it, right? I want to feel you. I-I want you there. Not killing me but sniffing me. Okay. Sniffing.” He smiled on her skin, those lips of his touching her so gently.

Nettle gripped, pulling him in under the part of her modesty wrappings.

“Use words, Milk Mouth.”

Spite, he wanted her to say it!

Nettle glanced away, cheeks ready to burst.

“Can you... sniff my breasts? Lick my breasts. Have my breasts? Do those things without, err-”

His large snout parted her tits.

“Yes, Milk Mouth.”

He sniffed, his muzzle moving towards her left breast. The plush meat of the minotaur’s snout dragged on her skin cool and damp. Causing the flesh there to prickle and tense as the wrappings gave way. Fabric tugged up to reveal her peach-sized breast capped with juice nipples.

Nettle was flushed all over, her copper-bright skin sweating and sweating as this minotaur furnace took his sweet time. His steaming breath billowing out in waves of misty gray. Her mounds seeming to swell, flustered breasts bobbing under his every inhale and exhale. Shaking in anticipation. Pores opening and her own scent, of flint, figs and fresh laundered cloth, intermixing with heavier aromas of lust and sticky, drippy arousal.

Showing her exactly what he meant with his body. Pressing hard. Pressing with promise.

“Smelled this.”

He kissed Nettle’s breast with azurite-blue lips.

“See this.”

Hot saliva dribbled down from his mouth, oozing down to collect between her valley of her breasts.

“Minotaur-!” Nettle breathed, her legs spreading as his knee split them opened. “Oh spite-”

“Edoh.” the minotaur said, letting her breast free. Teeth imprints blooming into a red ravished hicky. “Call me Edoh, Milk Mouth.”

“Name’s Nettle, Edoh.” she panted, awkwardly moving while pinned under him. “Edoh’s such a name. Were you given it by your head minotaur same as my Head Witch?” With Edoh’s arms planted on both sides of her shoulders and the fact that the minotaur was grinning down, mirth obvious in his expression, Nettle wouldn’t be able to fix herself easily.

Breasts glossy with saliva and sweat.

The minotaur’s shirt rose above his pecs. Nettle felt his thick-set nipples hardening against her.

And she had such a silly idea in mind.

“Those are some hearty bits you have there.” Nettle noted, attempting to hook her arms around his neck. She gotten to Edoh’s shoulders but it was growing apparent that she’d never reach around his collarbone without sitting up. “They remind me of potion corks we use. Could be useful in helping me re-wrap the ribbons, you know. Strong. Steady.”

Edoh was listening with a la-la look. Listening only to her cadence and not a lick to her words.

“Hmmm….”

Nettle arched up, using his nipples to lead back the wrappings Edoh moved with his muzzle. The minotaur watched her the whole time. Eyes like a cat watching a chick of a bird flittering in its paw. He was looking at as if she was so fragile. Like glass freshly blown and set aside to harden. Or the porcelain of Witch Horehound most prized tea cups. Things that were to be adored and handled with care.

It was so silly. She was a Nettle. One of hundreds of Nettle just like her in the enclave.

And yet.

Her eyes grew wet, lazy tears creeping out the sides of her eyelids.

“Milk Mouth?”

“I’m fine.” she hiccuped. “Confused and frazzled and upset and wanting...”

“Sure?”

Nettle’s wrappings fell mostly back into place, looser than before. Her nipples tenting up within the fabric. She weakly nodded. “This has been a bad night for me. I don’t blame you but then again, I do. I was perfectly fine before. Cleaning. Bribing. Having structure in the enclave. I’d never wanted to be outside ever again. And you’ve brought me here. And I love it. Stop being nice. You’re confusing me.”

“Confuse too, I.” Edoh said, thoughtful. “But this feels right. Feels good.”

“We’ve been together less than two hours. Far too early to make a call like that. You’d probably get wichelen killed in a cave-in with snap judgements like that.”

Edoh smiled, teeth and dimples a perfect sight.

“Longer than that.”

“Metaphorically, you mean.” Nettle asked. “I don’t know you.”

“You do.”

Just the way he said it, _stated it_ , like she ought have known _exactly_ what he meant.

“I’d remember being friendly with a minotaur!” Nettle exclaimed. “And again, are you sure I’m the one you’re looking for? We Nettles may all share the same name but are not alike. Now don’t tell anyone this. We Nettles use nicknames among ourselves. Perhaps you’re looking for my superior, Thorne? Or Selander, my bunk-mate? Hard-working Nettles you’d be cursed to find else where.”

“Nettle.” Edoh said slowly. “Viri. Mil-Ip. Milk Mouth.”

“Viri? How do you know that my nickname _is_ Viri! How on Surfeit could you have gotten that information! A spy. Is this some sort of _Hero_ plot!” Nettle shouted. “I knew it. You’re with the humans! I’m not a hostage but a captive. A victim for you to... to _torture_ for more information!”

Edoh simply sat there with that dumb look on his face. Smugness with a hint of something she didn’t like the shape of. He was… humoring her. Letting her throw her well-fought accusations at him.

“And Mil-Ip? Is that some sort of code? Mil-Ip? Mil-Ip? It almost sounds like-”

Nettle’s voice trailed away, leaving behind a horrified silence.

“It almost sounds like Milk Lips. No,” she rambled, face burning. “Milky Lips. Dear spite, this whole night was my fault! But it couldn’t be. You couldn’t be glory rod mark four. They’re just fuck-sticks that Witch Horehound likes to torture people she doesn’t like with. They don’t actually sync up with real cocks...”

“Strange names you called me. Grew to it over time.” Edoh answered. She prayed he wouldn’t say what she imagined would come next. “Pretty Pussy Pounder.” Nettle winced. “Double-Dicking Destroyer.” Oh spite. “Cunt-Claiming Conqueror.” Ivy came up with that one, not her! “But my favorite and _your favorite_ was-” Couldn’t her heart just crack? Like right now. “ _Big Drip_.”

Edoh laughed, shaking Nettle as she hid between her hands.

“I said those things because I didn’t think that a _fuck-stick_ was able to _comprehend_ those names! Stop smiling, you jerk. So I was sucking you off, so what!”

“Your wording. Mil-kie Lid-ps. The right name. Been calling you Milk Mouth whole time. Mistake. _Milky Lips_ and Big Drip. Funny, yes?”

“Funny for you, maybe.”

“Suppose so. Honored to have witch mare.” Edoh nodded then turned his head. “Earlier. Wanted to fix wrappings, yes? So much wrapping for so dainty small breasts. Can fix.”

“ _Edoh_.”

“Yes.” the minotaur’s ears twitched. “Fix breasts.” He had that smug look again. “Heard. _Heard clear_.”

Edoh moved against her, his nipples pushing straight onto her breasts and knocking against her buds. Nettle squirmed, arms lightly brushed out of the way. He began to rock back and forth, his rougher nipples clapping on her fairer ones. Pushing hard and certain until they stiffened, tingling under his girth. He exhaled onto the curve between her mounds, the steam blackish with a magic glow.

The saliva lingering there began to grow thick, bubbling into a whiter stickier form.

Nettle experimentally took a glob onto her finger. “Taurine vigor. This stuff is rare.” she remarked, ever the pragmatic wichelen. “Did you know that just a cap full can go for a hundred aulra. Only a cap!”

Edoh allowed her a few scant inches of breathing room by lifting himself up. “We call it fluffen.” Watching as she slathered the white fluid onto her breasts. The gooey substance writhing under fingertips, swirling itself to coat her firm mounds in silky vanilla-white. Nettle rubbed it in, her brown skin absorbing the liquid until it faded in. All traces of it gone.

“Not that I know precisely what it does.” Nettle noted. “But it sure felt vigorous on the skin.”

“Fluffen.” Edoh said slowly, crinkling his muzzle at her. “For our mares.”

He pressed his hands over hers, guiding them to sit evenly over her breasts. Edoh pushed down, her mounds squished under them until flatten as flat as they could be. As he did this, the tingling sensation grew. Roving over her prickling pores and twitching skin. “First, fluff.” he said, gripping her hands and breasts. “Then, fluffen.” He pressed up, rising her hands with his.

Her breasts followed, sponging out a size bigger than before. Round flesh, heavy and fat, billowing out.

The sensation rushed all over her body. New nerves and weak spots igniting across her inflated tits, nipples engorged and glowing under their twin palms.

“Now your turn. Fluffen.”

“Fluffen.” Nettle repeated, groaning. She groped her own breasts, grabbing what had been before merely handfuls into her hands. “First, _oh_ , flu-fluff.” Nettle squished down, little fingers sinking into her expanding creamy arolas and perked nipples. “Then, uh, _uhh_ , fluffen.” She pulled up, her breasts sponging out even bigger. The new growth swinging out and buoying on her gentle frame.

“Good mare, Milky Lips.” Edoh said somewhere above her. Her eyes had fallen shut. Thighs and hips spread wide as shivers claimed her shuddering form. “Fluffen is temporary. Only a day. Sometimes more. Better vigor found below. You know. _You know_.” The raw pleasure of this new growth adjusting and laying on her oversensitive body. She arched up, trying to grind her crotch into the minotaur for some relief from this pleasure-pain blooming through her nerves and veins.

His gaze cooked her skin. Brown eyes now cinders on an open flame. Those burning eyes slowly brushed across her wichelen frame. Taking in her short stature and plump sides. His inhales grew deep, wild, and mana dust came out with every exhale. The beast sniffing the mana strands in the air. And she thought he had a very cute snout, considering the long cow-like muzzle that sat on his face.

Nettle gestured to herself.

“Right...” she said carefully. “Now that you’ve _seen_.” Nettle made finger-quotes. “Will you take me home?”

“Place unfit. Look.” Edoh lifted up her wrist and ran a thumb across her rib cage. She didn’t much get his point. “You small. Smaller than smallest mare.” She was average sized compared to most wichelen. “Bulls make mares big. Even witch mare. Wanna do it right. Wanna see you right.”

“But. B-But,” Nettle sputtered. “ _You’ve seen!_ Wasn’t that your _whole_ point?”

“Yes.” Edoh agreed, his voice softening and binding around her cold, cold heart. “I seen that I wanted to see everyday. Every moment. Do right. Do _it_ right. Together long time now. Met.” he gestured to her. “Good bull. Good mare. Good union. Courted Edoh from afar, you did. Edoh gives Nettle swear. Oath.”

“Isn’t that a little fast?”

“Minotaurs storm through. Told this. Even, I. Smart bull. Dumb for _you_ and hope dumb _with_ you.”

“Gag, you’re talking like a human.” Nettle blurted, pushing at him. “Hex me. Trap me. Steal me. But never ever imply that gross human sensation around me. You’re are such a Big Drip. Filling me up until that squirmy sticky stuff pushes right out.” she blustered, clutching at his shoulders. “Witches aren’t fools but… I wouldn’t mind… Wouldn’t mind being _foolish_ for a while.”

After that, things went quiet as only the echoes of their words remained in the air.

Edoh flipped over and laid on the snow, his heat melting the white into warm mushy mud. Nettle wondered what he was thinking. He traveled far to find her. Minotaurs weren’t found on this side of the Southern Continent. His shade and color, he had to have come from the Western Isles. Perhaps hailing from the few mountain peaks of the peninsula. His description of the previous events was absurd. Nettle somehow courting a great minotaur to arrive and whisk her away. And is this how he expected this to go? To grab her and then what? Lay in the snow like the fools they are.

Nettle clustered on top, fatter breasts plopping onto Edoh’s strapping chest.

He seemed content to lay there, tail wagging in the snow. Watching her with those eyes of his. Lips curved into an idle, fond smile. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to touch him now.

“Imagine moment for long time.”

“Is this what you were expected?” Nettle asked, fingers balling into fists. “Am I what you wanted?”

He brought up a hand and caressed the side of her face.

“ _Yes_.”

Nettle leaned into his palm, hiding her face in her messy orange hair.

“Mares court. Bulls catch. Come to catch you. Are you willing?”

“Yeah.” she breathed, soft and low. “Yes, Edoh.”

Again, it was quiet. The silence waiting. Eyes watching each other. Breath going in and out. And then-

“Can I,” she said, “Can I touch you?”

“Always.”

Nettle swung her long orange hair to the side, her cascading locks landing over her brown shoulders. Gray wichelen stars, freckle-like, shimmered on her shoulders and collarbones. Marks of witch magic. Her small hands pushed up his shirt and undid the simple buckle that made his vest close.

Skin now free to the elements, the scent of him was so much stronger. The ordinary; the sap, the oil and the salt. And the erotic; the musk and sweat and that other smell he carried.

With her fingers, she drew a picture along his belly and torso. Thumbs sinking into his washboard-like muscle and palms praising the sensual flesh that laid beneath her. Nettle slid back, her hips dragging slowly as she did so, her flesh caressing and caressed by his. His thick curls ticklish under her inner thighs. Nettle dropped her head, lips meeting his coarse skin. Some of him felt human, nothing but blue-tinted skin with a few hairs. Some felt beastly, hairy with strong flesh coiled and stiff. The rest, the all of it entire, felt just right.

Nettle kissed and nipped, lips following the path of dipping hairs to the start of his slacks.

“Can I?”

“Yeah.”

Nettle sat up and untied the rope that held his slacks up, pushing the fabric out of the way until she saw Big Drip. It looked so much more handsome in person. “Like it, Milky Lips?” Big Drip had always been one of the more extreme fuck-sticks in Witch Horehound’s arsenal. And on Edoh, it was even larger. Thick like a stump, black veins twitched on the long and fat shaft between the minotaur’s legs.

The crown of the cock still nestled inside of the fleshy sheath.

Big Drip sat at full attention once freed from Edoh’s slack, tiny twitches radiating up and down the length. Spite, it was always hard to get inside. So meaty and inches practically going forever on such a shaft. Even without the cockhead extended, the dick reached to her belly button.

Her drool built up inside of her mouth, Nettle sloshing it around to make the liquid she needed to get Big Drip prepped. She leaned forward, letting her lips press light against the blue cock and saliva drip out. Coating it in warm and watery fluid. Mouth busy, she wrapped her hands around the shaft. Starting slow. Pumping it as she leaned on it, breasts split apart and cocooning it in soft pillowly mounds.

The cockhead began to rise, the sheath swelling around her hands.

Loud and wet, she licked around the end of the sheath, using her knuckles to tease Big Drip into showing itself. Edoh moved under her, his stomach clenching and grunts growing in the air. Loud and lewd. The softness of his voice nothing compared to how deep and flighty it could go. His shaft rose, paler flesh sticking out and pre-cum dripping down its sides. Nettle moved one of her hands south, fingers meeting more curls until she hit rounded flesh. His balls fattening. She groped one, massaging it until the skin became hard. Her other hand running up and down his cock.

“Sounds like someone likes my mouth.” Nettle laughed. “You remember that time I made you cum with just my breath. I thought I broke the fuck-stick.” Edoh’s nod jiggled her spread ass, knees digging in as she played with his cock. “Oh you do, don’t you?”

Nettle moved her mouth to the brimming crown, stuffing in the tip and pulling out. Over and over as pearly cum oozed out of the excited slit. Her gulps, audible and noisy, crowded out the squelching of her hands. Trickling cum slicking Big Drip and his massive balls.

“Uff-!”

A hot squirmy thing licked between her cheeks and pussy.

Nettle squeaked as her legs were pushed apart and lifted, her pussy lips chilled in out in the open. Edoh swiped with his long tongue, moving up and down her pink folds. Feminine fluid dripping out and splashing on his chest. Nettle moaned onto his cock, her pants forming into steamy clouds. His tongue met her clit, wrapping around it and besieging it with pleasure.

Big Drip gushed, rivers of foamy seed painting her chin and hands in gooey white.

Nettle slurped it up, lapping up the tasty cum where she could. Edoh tilted her, throwing his muzzle into her lower lips, face walled-in by her bouncing ass-cheeks. From this higher angle, Nettle wondered if he even noticed what he was doing. Dangling her over his cock. Unable to resist, she readied her lips and swallowed the thicken cockhead, relaxing her throat and taking more and more in.

Edoh’s legs rocked, unknowingly rising up to help her take the near endless inches in.

Nettle used her arms to balance herself and hummed, encasing Big Drip with absolute sensation. Drool and cum snuck out the side of her mouth, mixing into slow-moving fluid matting down Edoh’s curls. Her feet kicked in the air, having nothing to hold on as Edoh ate her out. The shape of his muzzle and the intensity of his tongue’s circular ministrations… It was too much. She cried around him, desperate moans muffled by his unyielding shaft.

An overeager shot of pre-cum erupted into her mouth. The surge rippling across her body.

Nettle swallowed what she could, the cum pouring up into her throat and emptying straight into her stomach. Damn, she loved this. The seed rushing straight in. The taste and the filling sensation that came with it. That’s why Big Drip was her favorite fuck-stick, the best of Witch Horehounds glory rods.

Big Drip twitched and more seed came, pushing up and making her gag, weakly swallowing as the cum kept coming and coming. And Edoh hadn’t even came. This was just more pre-cum preemptively stuffing her up. The pulse piled on, the sheer volume of the cum she inhaled began to show their work. Her belly pudging out. Stomach growing chunky and full as it extended from her waist.

Bobbing up and down, vision growing hazy and hot, Nettle flailed when Edoh pulled her off.

Her swollen plump lips leaving his cock with a crude and echoing pop.

“Milk me not today.”

Nettle coughed, wiping away a particular irresistible glob of cum from her chin and dropping it into her mouth. “Spoil-sport.”

“Tucking tonight.”

“What?”

“Tuck.” he said again, placing her onto his stomach and pressing a hand on her back. “It’s what we call mares on top. They tuck their bellies to fit. You won’t have problem. Not now. Later.” Edoh moved her back, her inflated belly bobbing all the while, a swollen distraction, and lined her with his cock. Her pussy wet and ready for Big Drip.

Nettle pushed back, the both of them gasping as the fat cockhead sunk in.

“Heard you all the time. Whimper. Cry. Beg. Temptress.”

“I’ve never been a quiet girl.” she joked. “Witches used to curse my mouth gone all the time.”

Edoh hitched forward, meeting her languid free fall on his attractive cock. The size of it smothering her inner walls with its all-compassing meat and girth. Once she was halfway, the shape of it bulged against her stomach. The shape of Big Drip clear and kinky through her skin. It was a good thing she was a wichelen, body-adjusting charms accessible to her, or otherwise they’d have a problem.

And why wasn’t charming considered one of the three witching arts? It should. She’d charmed a minotaur into falling for her. And that had to count for something.

Nettle reeled backwards, taking the rest in but not the base. Finding herself hoisted and stuck like a pig on the pole. Legs stretched to their limit. Edoh’s big hands take to her lower legs and help her along, driving her up and down his flexed sheath. Using her ankles as a hold, Nettle found a rhythm and rides, Big Drip spearing her through. Edoh growled, stuttering earthy groans with her sharp keens. The cock slamming against the bundles of nerves deep in her core.

Her pussy gaping at this point, lower lips slick and cum-covered as the drippy seed squirts out.

Edoh craned his neck and drew out his tongue, licking at her hard clit, the pinkest thing in all the cum. Nettle’s body jerked of one accord. Pleasure building like a kettle on a stove. Bliss near at hand. Her cries petered off into one breathless hitching thing. A moan. A mewl. Perhaps even a simple whimper. She can’t tell. Nettle’s ears have gone out. Replaced with the sound of Edoh’s heartbeat thrumming through his cock, the pulses of releasing seed and pumping heart linking up.

She came.

Nettle arched, limbs gone to ecstasy. Her insides clenched all around Big Drip as her orgasm has at her. Sweeping through her body and letting a wave of magical discharge. Her mana blows out, merging with the nearby trees and foliage. Spurring them to bloom early and grow ten times their original size.

Limp, Edoh held up her and climaxed. His seed shooting off in waves of overflowing cum. All that liquid only having one place to go.

Her bloated belly ballooned, expanding even bigger than before. Edoh slapped it, laughing.

“Better! Better!”

Nettle grinned, feeling cheeky and full.

“Shut it, you! You’ll wake the whole land at that volume.”

Edoh’s cock softening, Nettle managed to pull herself off. A surge of cum spewing out behind her. She goes to flop on top of Edoh, eyelids close to falling shut. Sluggish and satisfied. Edoh jostled her, knocking her out of a lovely dream.

“Can’t sleep.”

“Wh-What?” Nettle lifted her head, afterglow a fine throb on her body. “Why not? I wanna nap.”

“Gotta get home.” Edoh said, sitting up. Nettle doesn’t fight him. The minotaur readjusting her in his arms. Cum still pouring out her overstretched hole. “Bed for my fluffed mare.”

“Home? Got your fill and now you’re taking me back. Alright. Just don’t, _yawn_ , wake Selander.”

Edoh tucked her into his arms, shield her from the cold.

Dazed, she almost missed the feel of his lips kissing against her forehead.

“Silly Milk Mouth.” he whispered. “Going home with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edoh can speak pretty well. I don't mean to imply he's a primal creature (outside of sex) but that he just sucks at speaking the main language of Southern Continent. And that Nettle herself speaks a variant that he's translating through magic. But being that he's not a native or developed the magic chops to overcome that near nonsense gargle of words, his responses are as they are.


End file.
